


Myst

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Ficlet, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2018-03-08 23:30:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3227615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bard takes a fatal blow and Thranduil comes through.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Myst

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Drabble for ’s anon’s “Bard was wounded during battle of five armies but is still running negotiations for his people to the point of nearly collapsing on one of the meetings. Imagine Thranduil sliding to his knees near pale Bard and starting to chant healing spells.” request on [The Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/13429.html?thread=25258101#t25258101).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s a dull pound to his head and the greying of the world, colours draining right before his eyes. Time seems to slow as his right leg reaches forward, the left buckling, cracking under the pressure. He can’t feel the pain in his knee when it twists because he can’t feel _anything_ , except around his eyes where the wind beats him as he falls. 

He hits the stone floor of a twice-broken Dale, a dizzying crunch pounding through his ears. The clamour of steel and flesh and the roars of the fighting versus the cries of the dead are too much to bear, and they blur out in a numbing, steady pulse. For one frantic moment, Bard tries to look about, wants to see his children—his wife, where did she get to?—and the little halfling flicks into his peripherals out of thin air. His head rolls along the pavement, shoulder shattering, sweat-matted hair tumbling into his eyes. The pain is _so intense._ He might be screaming, but can’t be sure.

The halfling comes to kneel at his side, and Bard reaches out a hand, grasping in all the wrong places—his arm won’t work as he wills it to. The little halfling is saying something to him, frantic, gesturing, face screwed up in pain, and then the halfling—the hobbit?—is stumbling back up and off, running so fast for so little legs. And Bard is left there, knowing more than thinking that it isn’t any use—he’s going to die, if he hasn’t already, and there is no help that can save him.

Then, there’s light.

This is it, Bard feels, death, like the teachings say, like the old that teeter back from the brink insist: the light coming to claim him. Delirious, he doesn’t want to go, not yet, not without seeing the little ones one last time; he never said a proper goodbye. But then his vision coalesces into something so much more concrete: the silhouette of a man. 

Thranduil is beautiful as ever. He shines like the sun itself, strolling through the see of swords and bodies, his sharp eyes trained on Bard’s crumpled form. It’s a fitting thing to see before he goes. He’s lucky, perhaps, to slip away to the vision of an angel, and it bleeds away some of the pain, his mind to enraptured to process any agony, or perhaps it’s just shutting down. 

Thranduil comes straight to Bard and stands, far above, the silver of his battle-crown shimmering around the edges. The sun gives him a wild halo; Bard would look away if he could move his neck but can’t. 

As though the battle’s done and there’s nothing to fear, Thranduil gracefully lowers, balancing on one knee and still towering high: royalty to the last. His long hair brushes over his shoulders in elegant waves, and Bard feels like a child, wanting to run his fingers through it. He tries to raise his arms and hisses when they won’t listen. Thranduil’s smooth hand falls to his cheek. It cups the side of him and strokes his cracking skin, the other hand pressing down on his chest. Bard is vaguely aware that his blood is bubbling up and pooling around Thranduil’s fingers, but Thranduil holds him firm, still, soothes him and looks into his eyes, then begins to speak. 

It’s a low, steady chant. Bard doesn’t recognize the words—Elvish, perhaps, purred too sweetly for any mortal to grasp. The sound seems to slip idly by Bard’s ears, only catching around their edges. Bard’s vision is hazy but good enough to fixate on Thranduil’s long, thin lips and watch them work. Perhaps it’s just his fading mind playing tricks, but more than once, he thinks he sees little flecks of starlight spilling from Thranduil’s tongue. Thranduil’s whole body is encased in a glow, thick as paste. It drain’s Bard of his pain and fear and gives him, instead, a sense of calm. He thinks he’ll die peacefully. He tries to groan Thranduil’s name, but a stern thumb holds his lips together and shushes him, so he lies still and simply _feels_.

It comes back to him in slow, heady drips—he can move his shoulders, then his arms, then his fingers, and finally he can lift one hand, though he can’t seem to go high enough to catch Thranduil’s face. Instead, he contents himself with soft glide of Thranduil’s hair along his palm, silver-gold and silk-soft. Mystified in that beauty, all of Bard’s pain ebbs away. 

He’s left whole and mortal: a man again. Thranduil gives him a gentle smile and wraps long fingers around Bard’s hand, lowering it back to Bard’s chest. 

The handsome king rises, but only with an arm around Bard’s tender shoulders, bringing him up to his feet, unsteady though they are. Bard gasps in air, and his lungs fill and release, unhindered: he’s healed. Across the square, the wizard comes bursting through the pillars, grey robes in a swirl about him, but there’s nothing left for magic to do. Thranduil drifts from his side, and Bard lifts a bleary hand, not wanting that comfort to go. 

There’s no time. The war comes rushing back to him, the sound everywhere. The wizard looks at him, at Thranduil, and disappears without a word. The halfling is gone. Bard’s children are elsewhere, and he has to protect them. 

He bends to pick up his fallen sword. When he straightens again, Thranduil has left, and Bard is alone, until the next orc rushes in to try again.


End file.
